Home Free
by LCFC
Summary: Sam watches Dean in his domestic life and keeps an eye on him without revealing himself. When Sam is hurt on a hunt he realizes how alone he is and wishes he had his brother back. Can Sam's wish come true? And is Dean really happy?


He doesn't like hunting alone but he made Dean promise and he isn't gonna be the one to make his brother break that promise.

He watches Dean; comes around now and again and watches his brother live the life that he wanted him to have. Sees Dean taking Ben to baseball practise, sees him sitting in the ranch kitchen eating breakfast, sees him kiss Lisa on the porch before he goes to work. The Impala is in the garage, covered in a tarp and it makes Sam choke down something hot and huge to see it there but it was part of their old life not part of Dean's new one.

He finds a house to squat in; it is cold and damp and not exactly full of home comforts. He hustles a little to earn enough money to eat and to put fuel in his car. He thinks he is living but really he is just existing and it is only the sight of his brother's happy face that keeps him going.

He knows, when he enters the library, that the woman behind the counter thinks he is a homeless person. He sees her nose wrinkle in disgust as he drifts by her, knows his shirt is dirty, his jeans are worn. He knows he smells because personal hygiene isn't top of anyone's list after a few months (years) in hell.

It is a low grade haunting really; restless spirit of a woman caught in a fire here when part of the old library burnt down. Sam wonders if she is pissed at the modern décor or if she just doesn't know she is dead and is stamping books from beyond the grave. He is almost tempted to let her stay here but she pushed a little girl down the stairs last month and it is time for her to rest. What makes it worse is that she burnt so that means there is something left. Sam doesn't know what or where and it is like looking for a needle in a stack of needles.

Despite the fact that she was genteel in life, she is far from that in death. He doesn't see the bookcase coming until it falls, books raining down on his head, his shoulders, smothering him, crushing him to the ground. He feels a horrible overwhelming pain in his chest and a severe explosion of agony in his head and then he knows nothing at all.

Everything hurts; back, chest, head, arms, legs, even his pinkie finger. He wants to speak but when he opens his mouth it comes out like a moan and someone touches his arm, swift but comforting and he manages to make a sound that might be his brother's name before he slips into painless darkness again.

When he wakes for the second time he is on a soft bed with nice smelling pillows under his head. There is a tube in his arm and a needle in his hand and he wants to vomit but at least the pain has vanished under the fuzzy feel of medication. A nurse looks into his face and smiles tightly at him as he stares back at her feeling dopey and detached his mouth unable to form any kind of words.

"How are you feeling?" She put her hand on his head and nodded as if she knew something he didn't.

"Sick," his voice is rough, faint and he coughs into the words. She sighs and nods again, pushing something under his chin and waiting patiently as he throws up the contents of his – mostly – empty stomach.

"Concussion," a doctor appears from nowhere and he panics a little. They never did hospitals, not really. Twice he remembers sitting with Dean, once after the car crash, once after Alistair's attack. He remembers Castiel ringing them from a hospital and Bobby's painful realisation but his other memories are faint, they stem from his childhood and he doesn't want to go there, "you have several broken ribs, a fracture in your left arm and we feared a compression injury to your frontal lobe. You will need to stay here for a while," he frowns, "do you have insurance details?"

Sam can't nod but he gestures as best he can; he kept his fake insurance card in the name of Oswald Osborne and he was grateful for that now. The doctor smiles a little then and asks the question that Sam knew was coming, his stomach heavy with dread and something he would not put a name to.

"Is there anyone we can contact Mr – um – Osborne?"

Sam can't shake his head either but he is pretty sure that his expression must speak for him. The doctor and nurse exchange glances and he sees a range of emotions from concern to pity and he swallows, the roughness of his throat nothing to do with vomiting.

He dreams; he dreams of his brother, of sure hands that used to stitch up his injuries, of gentle touches that would be explained away as accidental, of soft, comforting words. He dreams of Dean's battered face, the cuts and contusions that he put there, he dreams of Dean's determined voice saying over and over '_I'm not going to leave you Sammy'_.

When he wakes he is alone and he feels terrible. He rolls his head on the pillow and stares at the TV that flickers in the corner. Hot tears trickle down his cheeks and he lifts a weak hand up to wipe them away. He could give them Dean's cell number but he isn't sure if it is still the same. He could give them Bobby's too but he doesn't. Instead he lies alone in the dark and comforts himself with memories.

They make him eat healthy things; he can't do much more than lie there in those first few days and he endures the humiliation of being fed, deep breaths making his chest scream. He hates having to just lie there because his mind is way too active, his thoughts tumble one over the other and most of them lead to Dean. He misses his brother so much it is palpable. He could cope when he had hunting to keep himself going but now it is getting harder and harder and he wonders if he is still in the pit and if this is torture.

Visiting times are the worst. Families clutching flowers, teddies, chocolates. Hugs given freely without restraint, conversation, maybe a magazine or two. Sam lies alone watching and, finally, gets the nurse to draw the curtains around his bed. The compassion in her eyes is what finally gets him and he buries his head into the pillow and gives in to the weeping, the grief, the pain that he has been holding back all these months, years, decades.

In the past he might have signed himself out AMA but now he just lay there and let them take care of him. He wasn't feeling better – in fact he was convinced he was feeling worse – he felt hot and cold, ribs aching, throat sore and he tossed in the bed, sheets wet beneath him as he sweated, bangs stuck to his forehead, hair clinging to the back of his neck.

Delirium takes him down and he is burning, burning again, Lucifer's voice strong in his ears, telling him how he was the chosen one, how he had been moulded from childhood to be the perfect vessel. Sometimes he hears Adam's screams as they hurtle into the pit, sometimes he hears his own voice pleading, denying. He knows he crawled out at some point but maybe he has been dragged back in and he lets himself go, wanting only to find some sort of peace.

He feels the hand on his forehead firm and unforgiving. The voice next to his ear wondering and angry all at once.

"Sam."

It is the first time anyone has used his given name in over a year and he feels his heart thunder in his pain filled chest. He coughs and tries to open his eyes, hears whispers in the background and winces, sure that Lucifer is back inside of him.

"Sammy"

It can't be Dean; he is dreaming, delirious, mad. He tries to say something but all that comes out of his mouth is a moan and he hears concerned voices coming from all around him. He pushes his way to the surface, fighting his way out like he did the first time. A big hand grabs his and he is being pulled out of the ground, out of the pit. He can see a bright light and feel the wind and rain on his face. He cries out and someone strokes through his hair, then he falls back into limbo again and darkness descends.

"I didn't bring you candy."

He opens his eyes and rolls his head ever so slightly and Dean is sitting on the hard hospital chair next to him. He is wearing a work shirt and sensible jeans and – for a moment – Sam is convinced he is dreaming again.

"Or fucking flowers," Dean looks calm but his eyes are angry and his mouth is tight.

Sam opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He stares at his brother and wait to wake up. Dean stares back at him and for a long moment it is like a Mexican stand-off and neither of them is backing down.

"Thought you were dead and in hell," Dean's eyes water and his lip trembles. Sam's throat is so tight he almost chokes on it and he rubs his eyes. "But no – you are fucking hunting and you nearly got yourself damn well killed before I even knew you were alive."

Sam wants to ask so many questions _'How did you find me?, What are you doing here? _but instead he just drinks in the sight of Dean hunched over and angry, tears smearing his cheeks like he doesn't even know he is crying.

"Do you have anything to say Sam?" Dean finally touches him, hand firm against his wrist, moving up to squeeze his bicep and then to stroke through his hair.

"I'm sorry," in the end it is lame but true and it is a sad statement of fact that encompasses so much and yet doesn't seem enough.

Dean bites his lip and shakes his head, rubbing his cheek and chin, head lowered for a moment as he composes himself.

"I know," he replies, finally and Sam swallows hard, seeing anger, resignation and forgiveness fight a war across his brother's features, "why didn't you tell me you were back?"

"Because you were happy," it is the longest sentence he has managed in weeks and Dean seems to know it. He rubs Sam's hair again and strokes his face, unable to keep his hands still, unable to stop touching now he has started.

"That goes to show how much you know," Dean replies, soft and low and Sam sees everything he has ever wanted glinting in his brother's green eyes.

"I was working a haunting," it is a swift change of subject but Dean doesn't flinch, glad of it, "in a library."

"Once a geek always a geek," Dean grins, "so – you tellin' me that some old librarian got the jump on you. You are certainly out of practise Sammy boy."

Sam coughs then and rubs his chest; he doesn't seem to hurt so much anymore and he can feel his mouth curving into something he hadn't tried for a long, long time.

Dean catches the smile and winks, soft and subtle, a memory of other places, other times.

"I'll be back," he says, channelling Arnie circa 1980 and Sam feels his cheeks stretch and his mouth waver, lying back on the bed with a sigh.

"I took care of her," Dean shoves the candy he has brought across the sheets and Sam takes it, shoving a piece into his mouth and trying not to choke.

"I didn't think you were hunting anymore"

"I wasn't but it is like riding a bike Sammy."

"I didn't want you to go back to hunting," Sam speaks through a mouthful of candy. It muffles his pain and hides his anguish and Dean shakes his head again, a wry smile on his face.

"Then you shouldn't let a librarian ghost get the jump on you princess," his brother takes a piece of Sam's candy and sucks at it with a satisfied smile on his face, "Impala still purrs like a dream Sammy," he says with a deep breath, eyes wandering, face alight.

Sam smiles then and eats another piece of candy, watching Dean all the time, drinking him in. Dean catches his eye and grins happily.

"You thought you were doing the right thing Sam and I'm thankful for it," Dean's emotions are close to the surface but he doesn't give them full reign, "but you are back now and I don't want you hunting alone – you get me? We are a team Sam – always have been – always will be." He stops talking and leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the expression on his face telling. Sam swallows and grins back, happiness surging through him washing away the ache from his bones, his head and – most importantly – his heart.

He is released two weeks later; the doctors are pleased but astonished at his progress and they shake his hand. The nurse smiles at him and hands him his case and he walks down the corridor to the elevator wondering what he is going to do now.

The Impala waits on the curb; he can see his duffle in the back seat and Dean beaming at him from behind the wheel.

"Driver picks the music," Dean says and he throws open the passenger door as an open invitation that Sam cannot resist. He gets in, asks no questions as he buckles his belt and watches as the town vanishes in the rear view mirror.

"Shotgun shuts his cakehole," is the only thing he wants to – needs to – say right now and Dean beams as he shoves Zeppelin into the tape deck and cranks up the volume.

The road stretches ahead of them bright and clean and clear and they are home free…

End


End file.
